Saving Grace
by rslhilson
Summary: The origins of Wilson's secret in "House vs. God." Wilson/Grace canon pairing with references to House/Wilson. Oneshot.


_Saving Grace_

He puts the groceries away carefully, deliberately, a place for everything and everything in its place. She watches him as he works, her brown eyes hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "I'm feeling a lot better now."

He offers her a small smile over his shoulder, the kind he knows that he shouldn't be giving. "I'm glad," he replies in earnest, and reaches into the plastic bag to put the last of the items in the cupboard.

If he's going to be honest with himself, he has to acknowledge that she's not even really his type. He's always preferred sunshine hair and ocean eyes, sleek figures toned by morning jogs and afternoon yoga classes. He worships beauty and power, women who will tell him exactly what he wants because it's easier than pretending that he actually knows.

Instead, the woman curled into a ball on the couch is faded and broken, physically and emotionally drained as she fights off the lingering effects of her last chemo session. Her fate rests in _his_ hands, and he wields control in the form of pain medication and life-extending drugs. In this part of his world, the only power more dominant than his own lies in the cancer itself.

As he joins her in the living room, he eyes the cluster of pill bottles on the coffee table and vaguely wonders whether she's all that different from the buried desires that unravel when he drifts off to sleep. A scarred leg, a scruffy chin, a shattered soul so painfully broken that even in his dreams he's overwhelmed by the prospect of repairing the damage. He'll wake in a pool of sweat, feeling so completely hopeless and alone that he spends the next half hour shoveling handfuls of cold water on his face over the bathroom sink.

"If you'd like, I could stay with you for a while," he says, and his words are painted with more than just politeness.

"That would be nice."

He lowers himself onto the couch beside her, his stiff white shirt and pressed black slacks a stark contrast to her oversized pink sweater and gray cotton sweatpants. She smells of strawberry shampoo and sickness, and her pale skin and gaunt body make her look as needy as he feels.

She gazes at him over the tops of her rigid knees, drawn tightly to her chest. "You're a saint, Dr. Wilson. I don't know what I would've done without you."

"I'm happy to help," he assures her. "You shouldn't be alone in this, Grace."

Her subsequent smile is grateful, but suggestive; it's not an innocent gesture or a demand, but a question. An invitation.

He readily accepts, reaching over to take her hand, and in return he feels the warmth and comfort of her socks burrowing playfully beneath his legs. He glances up as she smiles again, and he knows what House would think. To the diagnostician, patients are nothing more than unfortunate incarnations of medical files. Their insignificance is even greater when they're dying, for what good is a diagnosis when a failure to solve the mystery would have resulted in the same fate?

But Wilson is different; he always has been. Patients aren't puzzles, they're _people_, and the dying are the ones who deserve the most attention.

Grace especially, it seems.

She disentangles her body, and her welcoming lips are cool and soft in his own as he eases her sweater off of her shoulders and unhooks her bra in a single attempt. He carries her to the bedroom, a weight no heavier than that of a feather, and his gentle touch is sensitive to her pain and fragility. There's something pitiful and heartbreaking about the way his strong build engulfs her in the bed, the way she desperately arches into his body and frantically runs her fingers over his skin. It's as if she's afraid that the slightest sign of weakness will make him disappear.

It's almost tragic, Wilson thinks as he comes. A little part of him feels like he's dying, too.

* * *

He lies beside her as she sleeps, the soft hum of her breathing penetrating the stillness.

This is only the first of many nights, he knows. Life has confined both their abilities to fill the voids of loneliness – hers with time, and his with sheer impossibility – and it's only rational that they should work together in a final battle against fate.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that logical reasoning always trumps all.

"_Greg,_" he whispers into the darkness, and Grace barely stirs.

Had she been awake, he's not sure she would've been able to make out the difference.


End file.
